


I'll Use You as a Focal Point

by shotinthedark



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Inappropriate use of Mokuton, Light Bondage, M/M, Sad boi hours, Softcore Porn, They both need therapy, but they're in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:35:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22299421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shotinthedark/pseuds/shotinthedark
Summary: “Are you with me?”He wants to say no, that he’s not. That he’s actually hundreds of miles away, sitting atop a seaside cliff listening to the noisy tide and shrill gulls harmonize reluctantly, that his feet are dangling, drifting with the ebb and flow of the wind and his eyes are slowly dissecting the scars that make peculiar patterns across the palm of his hands. He wants to say that and—in doing so—ignore the soft background lullaby of Konoha at night, the gentle whispers of shops and their keepers’ yards away from where he sits now.(In which Kakashi has a lot of emotions he doesn't quite know how to process, and Tenzo's always there to piece him back together.)
Relationships: Hatake Kakashi/Yamato | Tenzou
Comments: 7
Kudos: 56





	I'll Use You as a Focal Point

**Author's Note:**

> hi, hello, thanks for stopping by  
> this is my first fic i've ever posted (we won't talk about the numerous fics on my harddrive that will never, ever see the light of day for good reason), and the first one within the Naruto universe, so please bear with me. feel free to drop a kudos or comment or just enjoy this self indulgent one shot i had to get out of my system. thank you <3
> 
> title is from I Found by Amber Run  
> (which is nice bg music for this, as well)

“Are you with me?”

He wants to say no, that he’s not. That he’s actually hundreds of miles away, sitting atop a seaside cliff listening to the noisy tide and shrill gulls harmonize reluctantly, that his feet are dangling, drifting with the ebb and flow of the wind and his eyes are slowly dissecting the scars that make peculiar patterns across the palm of his hands. He wants to say that and—in doing so—ignore the soft background lullaby of Konoha at night, the gentle whispers of shops and their keepers’ yards away from where he sits now. 

But, he’s weak today, just as he has been a lot lately, and no words fall from his mouth when they should. Instead, he turns his face to look up towards the stars, the numerous constellations stranded in the nighttime sky shimmering faintly as if trying to comfort the ghosts that haunt his heart. _The stars hold too much hope_ , he thinks, as he rocks to the side, bracing a palm underneath his hip to leverage himself to stand. His knee groans in protest, giving slightly so that he falters back towards the weathered concrete below him. He doesn’t get far before Tenzo’s gripping his elbow and righting his wrong. Typical.

“Kakashi,” he chastises, softening his touch and his voice as he brushes minor debris from Kakashi’s thigh. “I told you to go to the hospital.”

Something warm blooms in Kakashi’s chest—a soft, red light filling the hollow halls within his ribcage like the first beams of a summer sunrise—before the faint blue returns, capsizing the sun in a state of eternal night. Kakashi musters a halfhearted smirk, eyes closed, bumping the other jonin as he stretches himself tall. His spine creaks at the new position; his hip nestles back into place with a quick _pop_ and a pain-stricken sigh.

“Tenzo,” Kakashi teases, trying—and failing—to match the tone already set. He’s tired; he’s been gone a week; he wants to go home, but he couldn’t without saying goodnight to those who mattered most. “Since when do I ever listen to you?”

He hears Tenzo suck in a breath and Kakashi braces himself for the familiar lecture. _If you keep this up_ , it starts _, it’ll be me in front of a memorial, rereading your name over and over, mourning_ _the loss of the only person I’ve loved_. He braces for it, the familiar prick of the words because he knows Tenzo is right, but it never comes. 

Instead, a calloused thumb brushes just underneath Kakashi’s cheekbone, and Tenzo’s eyes are half-lidded, and dark, and serious when they meet his for the first time since they debriefed with the Hokage earlier. There's no smile on his face, no features that betray what the other man is thinking, and for what seems like the infinite time, Kakashi curses the Foundation. 

“Kakashi,” Tenzo says again, but this time it’s not a reprimand, it’s a plea, and Kakashi is yanked from his incensed thoughts, and he _knows_. He hangs his head, resting his forehead against Tenzo’s happuri. It echoes dully as it meets the chilled metal of Kakashi’s own hitai-ate.

"Let's go," he murmurs, taking Tenzo's hand away from his face and looping his fingers into the empty spaces before shutting his eyes tight. He’s been sedentary for hours, in a trance-like state ever since the sun settled past the horizon, but his breath comes heavy now as his heart races against the confines of his chest. He can’t quite catch it—though he tries—and he’s left taking a short, gasping, shuddering breath. ”Please."

“Alright, love,” Tenzo whispers, and Kakashi’s heart rips, just a little bit. He doesn’t deserve the affection, he doesn’t, yet he still feels Tenzo shift next to him, feels Tenzo’s free hand grasp his opposite hip, thumbing briefly over the jut of the bone that’s become more and more prominent over the past week. It’s dangerous, being like this, so open where anyone could see, but he can’t bring himself to care or move away. 

He feels himself being led forward, slowly at first, taking the steps down from the stone at a pace nearly offensive to him—he’s the goddamn Copy Ninja, not some crumbling elder—but he can’t find the energy to be annoyed. Rather, he’s grateful—his knee is starting to throb as blood flow returns to the swollen tendons, and he’s trying his best to ignore it, ignore what it implies—and leans more into Tenzo, letting his head rest on his shoulder as the other man grunts quietly with the addition of the extra weight. 

They make it off the steps, and into the grass, before they start to fly. Or, Tenzo starts to, and Kakashi feels himself follow, feels his body going through the familiar motions—he travels this path daily, knows exactly which trees hold gashes left by his kunai after a particularly bad bout of frustration—feels that same frustration begin to build itself back into every small, hidden fracture of his body and spirit as they dodge vigilante branches. He’s frustrated at himself for letting himself become this way, letting himself become this listless drifter and absentminded lover with a bad habit of being a disappointment, letting himself become a pathetic excuse for a sensei, for shirking his responsibility of one student while accidentally pushing the other to go rogue. 

He’s so fucking frustrated.

But, he’s so, so tired.

By the time they make it back to his place, he’s aged years, and his bones are groaning with the same weariness as the wooden boards beneath their feet, stained with as many regrets as the decade old walls around them. He feels heavy, weighted, as if the ninja tools in his pocket are made of lead, and he feels Tenzo reaching for his pair of keys in his flak jacket, shouldering Kakashi’s weight as if it’s not an inconvenience to his every move. 

He shouldn’t be doing this, wallowing, forcing Tenzo to care for him as if he’s an invalid, a child. He’s not! Kakashi’s a grown man, an elite ninja, a fucking _legend_ , and he’s _fine_. Or, he will be—maybe—and he doesn’t need Tenzo tiptoeing around his jagged edges to make sure he’s okay, and to prove it, he stands as straight as he can (his knee’s still slightly bent and he acts as if his pride isn’t damaged by the fact), and shoulders past Tenzo gruffly to manhandle the door open with his own keys, trying three of the keys on the ring apathetically before throwing them to the ground in exasperation, cursing himself under his breath for even locking it at all. It’s not like he _cares_ what’s in there, but old habits die hard, he supposes. 

He hears Tenzo sigh tensely through his nose behind him, catches him shoving a dirty hand through his tousled hair over his shoulder. Kakashi narrows his eyes, his lips pulling into a tight line as Tenzo gives him a _look_ , and _Gods_ , isn’t that the most annoying thing? That Tenzo can hold a whole silent conversation with his eyes and Kakashi can’t even string a sentence together to tell him how he feels.

“Don’t,” Kakashi commands with all the patronizing authority he can muster. His voice shakes towards the end, and he resigns himself to the fact that he’ll never again be the coldblooded ninja people thought he was. Funny, isn’t it, how far he’s fallen. 

Tenzo’s brow arches, his one hand resting on the back of his head, the other on his hip, and his mouth is quirked slightly at the edges. His stance reads as casual, relaxed, even though Kakashi can see him rolling subtly onto the balls of his feet, can see him ease into a fighting stance. 

“Stop acting like a petulant child, and I won’t,” comes his reply, followed by a nonchalant shrug. It’s fully dismissive, and it’s meant to get a rise out of Kakashi, and he knows he shouldn’t take the bait, but, _goddammit_. He bends at the hip quickly, feeling the joint tremble in protest of the unexpected adjustment, and sweeps his key ring off of the ragged doormat before shoving—hopefully the correct—key into the lock. Luck is looking down on Kakashi, apparently, as the key turns easily and the lock offers a quiet _click_ before he shoves his bodyweight into the door—it sticks sometimes, especially if it’s humid—throwing Tenzo a frigid look.

“If I’m a child, what does that make you?” Kakashi spits, slamming the door on Tenzo’s mildly exasperated expression. The sound is loud, and dull, and his neighbors will probably complain about it later, but Kakashi has other things to worry about now.

Like how quickly he can Tenzo-proof the apartment. 

His chakra level’s low—fighting, and traveling, and nearly drowning in self-pity will do that to a man—but he still manages to complete a few earth style jutsus to cover the windows and barricade the door. He even sets up a failsafe water style jutsu above the front door, as if he were some knuckleheaded genin, just in case Tenzo goes against logic. Kakashi goes to retreat near his bed when he hears it, the telltale creaking of Tenzo’s wood style through the floorboards.

He gets ten seconds into cursing the mokuton, and five seconds into making the signs for a jutsu that may or may not singed Tenzo’s eyebrows off, before thin branches are rising from his floor to twine tightly around his wrists and ankles, and Tenzo is following behind, looking more peeved than he had a few minutes ago. His arms are crossed, his stance wide, and his eyes flick to Kakashi’s hands before he rolls them slowly, purposefully.

“Truly, senpai, sometimes I wonder if you really are as smart as everyone thinks you are,” he mutters drolly, taking a threatening step towards Kakashi and flicking his wrist to disperse the wooden tendrils keeping Kakashi rooted. “Fireball jutsu? In your own apartment? An apartment, may I remind you, is mostly _made of wood_.”

“Forgive me, _Captain_ ,” Kakashi says in a too-sweet voice, hands lowering to his side to rest just inside his pockets as he squares his shoulders, straightens his spine. “If I don’t quite live up to your expectations.”

Kakashi smiles, but his features are sharp, and though the mask hides it, Tenzo knows it’s predatory, knows that Kakashi is meticulously planning his colorful death in his head, knows that he’s dangerously close to pushing Kakashi too far. The air around him starts to crackle with small, sharp bursts of lightning, and the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. He doesn’t know if he’s more pissed at Tenzo now, or himself, and he’s not sure if he really cares either way.

He waits for Tenzo’s retort haughtily, with an arrogant smirk and lift of his brow, watches as Tenzo stalks towards him slowly. He knows he can easily gain the upper hand, can easily win in this absurd and poorly timed pissing match; he’s Kakashi _fucking_ Hatake, for God’s sake. This is child’s play, a fucking walk in the park.

_But,_ he thinks _, this is Tenzo._

And Tenzo _knows him_. 

Which, in and of itself, is perhaps the part that terrifies him the most.

And it’s when Kakashi’s bravado falters for a split second, when his forehead smooths out, and his eyes grow distant, and the static electricity sizzles out around him, that Tenzo flickers in front of him. He grabs Kakashi’s jaw, forces him to look directly into Tenzo’s depthless eyes, and Kakashi growls a death threat between clenched teeth that Tenzo must admit is pretty imaginative.

“Well,” Tenzo chuckles as he moves his face closer to Kakashi’s, knowing full well that he’s playing with fire. (Kakashi’s been known to bite before, but Tenzo’s been known to bite harder). “At least you’re not sulking anymore.”

Kakashi starts, his mouth opening and closing like a fish as he tries to think of a protest and fails. He frowns, trying to recall when he became an open fucking book, when the younger man decided it was his sole responsibility to take care of him, when he allowed himself to be consumed by his past. Tenzo’s looking at him as if he simultaneously hung the moon and absolutely destroyed it, and he kind of fucking hates it. He shifts under the scrutiny, trying to pull away, but Tenzo only tightens his grip, keeping Kakashi firmly in place.

“’kashi,” he murmurs, his nose just barely brushing Kakashi’s cheek. It shocks him, slightly, as the air around him is still charged from his outburst earlier. “Why won’t you let me take care of you?”

Unexpected, fully unexpected, and Kakashi hates that he asks that question, hates that he feels like Kakashi needs someone to take care of him, hates that there’s a double meaning behind his words and that Kakashi’s falling prey to them. He takes a sharp breath, hoping to regain his stability, but all he gets is overwhelmed by the ever-present scent of sandalwood and lavender mixed with slightly stale sweat that is entirely Tenzo.

“I don’t—,” he tries to say, but there’s a thumb lightly brushing across the swell of his lower lip through his mask, and Kakashi freezes, eyes flitting unknowingly to Tenzo’s peculiar stare as the other man takes two steps forward, pressing Kakashi’s back against the apartment wall with barely a sound. He shakes his head—Tenzo graciously allows him this—bracing a hand on his lover’s hip to push him away so he can get some fresh goddamn air, but Tenzo doesn’t move back like he should. He’s rooted in place, pun intended.

“Quiet,” Tenzo whispers, his breath fanning out across Kakashi’s face and the older man feels a shudder run down his spine. He’s tired, and he needs a shower, and he just wants to be _left the fuck alone_ , but he also knows, deep down, that he never wants Tenzo to leave, knows he’s the only thing keeping Kakashi safe, and sane, and together, just as he always has. Kakashi’s brought out of his thoughts by Tenzo’s hand moving from his jaw, to his cheek, to the edge of the mask before pulling it down slowly and letting it pool around his neck. He feels exposed, his internal despair on display for Tenzo’s curious eyes to see (never mind that he’s seen that, and more, before). Tenzo’s nose bumps along the sharp cut of Kakashi’s cheekbone not covered by his hitai-ate, nuzzling the spot just beneath his jaw, next to his ear, and Kakashi’s shuddering again—he’s wound tight; who could blame him?—with gooseflesh breaking out onto his skin. 

“Don’t argue with me, not about this,” comes the soft plea, directly into his ear and nearly silent, laced with the same quiet danger that lingers around Tenzo’s hand at the base of his throat.

Kakashi rolls his eyes, chuckling darkly, but doesn’t notice Tenzo’s brow lift artfully under his happuri in response. He’s heard this particular plea—and subsequent scolding—before, and he knows that Tenzo’s thinking about all the times Kakashi’s wept into his shoulder under the veil of night, or thrown meaningless, harsh words like shuriken after Tenzo got too close to a piece of him he didn’t want to share, or the long, silent days spent in the hospital, filled to the brim with longing, critical looks and words left unspoken after Kakashi was too reckless in battle. He knows Tenzo thinks he’s redeemable, that he has a good soul, that his transgressions can be forgiven, and all will be well, and he knows Tenzo won’t listen when Kakashi tells him that he _can’t_ , that he’s tried, and failed, and he’s undeserving of this inane affection. Rather, Tenzo will take him to bed, and lay Kakashi out (restrained if Kakashi’s putting up too much of a fight), and find it within himself to murmur sweet things over every scar that mar Kakashi’s body—though his favorite is the one that bisects Kakashi’s left eye, dipping neatly into the dimple to the left of his mouth—until Kakashi’s driven mad and acquiesces simply so the sheer torture of being fawned over will end.

And now that Kakashi’s thinking about it, the circumstances aren’t all that dissimilar, aren’t they?

“Thought we already established that I don’t listen to you,” Kakashi grunts, his other hand coming to rest on Tenzo’s opposite hip. He tells himself that he means to shove the other man aside, and goes to do so, but Tenzo hasn’t let his guard down while Kakashi’s been lost in his head. He’s moved his knee between Kakashi’s and dipped lower into a defensive stance and he’s _laughing¸_ though it’s not cheery at all.

“Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten, ‘kashi,” he murmurs, and he’s close, _too fucking close_ , close enough that his words act more like a kiss with the way his mouth catches against Kakashi’s with each enunciation. “About the last time I had you like this.”

Kakashi blinks once, twice, and memories from a few weeks ago start to trickle in. Tenzo’s hand around his throat, pinning him to the rickety door of the abandoned farmhouse they happened upon as Kakashi practically vibrates with leftover adrenaline from their mission, increasingly angry words being spat at each other through clenched teeth—with kisses just as fierce following after. Kakashi remembers fresh bruises joining the array of lacerations on their skin, the sweet, sticky sweat between them smearing the bloody remnants of their battle into accidentally artistic swaths. He remembers waking in a tangled mess of limbs, Tenzo tucked delicately under his arm, with his head nestled into the crook of Kakashi’s neck, and remembers the lazy morning round they later had to explain away after the Hokage chastised them for being late...again.

He’s brought back to his current situation by Tenzo gently humming the lulling tune he sometimes offers when Kakashi rouses from his many nightmares, placing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, and, _Gods_ , why did Tenzo choose him of all people? Kakashi makes a quiet noise in return, one that pools between his collarbones and rumbles his throat as he turns into Tenzo’s featherlight touch. 

“How could I forget, Captain?” He mumbles against Tenzo’s mouth. Their lips brush once, twice, as if Tenzo’s looking for clarification and Kakashi’s looking for validation before connecting for a long, lingering kiss that burns a pure, bright fire throughout Kakashi’s person. 

They break apart, but stay close. There’s no hurried heat, not just yet, and Kakashi knows what Tenzo’s doing without even hearing the words he’s whispering to him as he reaches to slowly undo his hitai-ate. He leans into the touch, relishes in the warm glow of unadulterated adoration that circles his system as Tenzo places a kiss over his scar, his closed eyelid, the mark just underside his mouth. He keens lowly and reaches for Tenzo’s happuri, fingers catching underneath the edges, removing it too quickly and knocking it dully against Tenzo’s temple. 

His face splotches with a faint flush and the tension of the room breaks as Tenzo chuckles easily, heartily, eyes nearly twinkling as he shakes his head to dispel the lingering ache. Kakashi goes to apologize, but then there’s Tenzo, nipping Kakashi’s lower lip in retaliation before soothing it over with a slow and gentle kiss. Kakashi shifts his hands, moving to tangle his fingers into the shock of hair that’s fallen just to the side of Tenzo’s face as their mouths continue to move against each other in a sultry, slow dance. 

_His hair’s getting long again_ , Kakashi notes, absently hoping that it’ll stay long, but knowing it won’t.

Tenzo moves to shift closer, to line their bodies up _just right_ , but then his knee knocks into Kakashi’s, sending a searing pain up through his thigh to settle into the curve of his hip. He breaks away, sucking in a breath through his teeth that he hopes to smother before Tenzo hears him. He fails, ultimately, if the way Tenzo picks him up gently—like a newborn, and Kakashi thinks this should probably, definitely be insulting—and settles him down on the end of his bed is any indication. 

He sighs, overdramatic and irritable, as Tenzo moves away, mood definitely spoiled now, to rummage in the bathroom cabinet drawers for the haphazard first aid kit he knows is there. It’s just a sprain, nothing more, yet Tenzo’s acting as if he’s missing a limb and bleeding out before him. Kakashi says as much—to which Tenzo tell him to shut up and act his age—idly leaning his face on his palm as he stoops over, actively avoiding Tenzo’s stern gaze as he pads over to where Kakashi sits. 

“Since your dumbass refuses to go to the hospital,” Tenzo mutters as he gracefully lowers to his knees and sets down a roll of bandages and medical tape. “You get to suffer through my mothering.”

Tenzo shoves a hand into the center of Kakashi’s chest, trying to get him to just _lay down, dammit_ , but Kakashi stays stock straight, squinting his displeasure at Tenzo. He opens his mouth to say something, but then Tenzo’s cutting him off with his mokuton, the thick bands of wood branching from the headboard wrapping around Kakashi’s wrists and forcing him to lay back. 

“You have to be fucking _kidding_ me,” Kakashi growls as another branch wraps underneath his armpits. He’s pinned now, and while he knows he could escape this—it would be easy, almost too easy—he also knows that Tenzo’s wrath afterwards would be entirely not worth it. 

“Does it look like I’m kidding?” Tenzo asks airily as he goes to tug down Kakashi’s pants little by little. His face is serious again, like it gets when they’re on a mission and the target’s _right there_ , and Kakashi has to bite back a retort about how he has vastly different ideas for what it looks like Tenzo is doing (since he’s on his knees and all) for fear of Tenzo literally taking his head off.

Instead, Kakashi stays silent as he’s stripped of his shoes, his wraps, his weapons, his pants and what little shred of dignity he has left. He resigns himself, feeling the weight of his patchwork heart pushing him further down into the mattress as he gazes at the discolored ceiling. The embers of the fire that was started earlier—the one born in anger, and guilt, and sadness, and adoration—settle low within the pit of his stomach, patiently waiting to be fanned back into flames. His earlier thoughts, pondering and melancholic, float back to the forefront of his mind as Tenzo’s calloused hands deftly massage the sore muscles of his thigh, kneading until his fingers brush against the swollen tendons of his knee.

It hurts, _Gods_ , it fucking hurts, and he briefly laments over taunting the enemy to land a well-placed kick to the overexerted joint before he’s brought back from the past by Tenzo’s fingers pressing deeper into his skin, rolling the knots of his muscles out in laborious strokes. He can’t help the pained groan that oozes from his throat as tears prick his eyes. And isn’t that the icing on the cake?

He feels Tenzo place a tender kiss just atop his kneecap, his thumbs no longer pressing into the muscle, but rather sweeping soothing lines over his shin. Kakashi hiccups silently— _these fucking tears_ —as Tenzo starts to wrap the bandages around his knee.

He doesn’t deserve this careful attention, and he knows by now that these thoughts are one of the many broken records in his head, but he can’t help it, can’t stave off the empty, ever-growing expanse in his chest where the doubt lives. He doesn’t deserve Tenzo, normally stoic and reserved, baring his heart and soul to him each time they’re alone. He doesn’t, and it breaks Kakashi’s heart that he can’t be the same, that he can’t offer anything other than these secret, shared solace within the walls of their respective apartments after and in-between missions. He knows Tenzo knows this, loves him just the same, but Kakashi wishes, for once, that he wouldn’t have to be the one to be taken care of.

By the time Tenzo finishes, and applies the tape to the bandages to keep them secure, Kakashi’s softly weeping, the tears running in smooth tracks down his cheeks to pool beside his ears on the bedspread. His hands, still restrained by the mokuton (which has taken to blooming Kakashi’s favorite, fragile blossoms that land on the scarred skin of Kakashi’s collarbone), are curled into fists, ragged nails digging into the palms and his lips are bitten bloody, teeth opening old, chapped wounds, in order to feel something other than the eternal sadness that nags at him.

Another kiss is placed to his injury before Tenzo’s trailing a line of them up Kakashi’s thigh and over his boxer briefs, his opposite hand following his path on the older man’s other leg. He reaches the hem, pauses to nose along the sharp indent of Kakashi’s hipbone. He hears the gasps of his lover, feels the nearly indiscernible tremors that linger in his chest, and he moves to kiss the tears from his cheeks as he begins to remove Kakashi’s flak jacket.

He releases the mokuton as he slips the jacket from Kakashi’s shoulders and onto the bed, and Kakashi, overwhelmed from the abundance of reaffirming touches, reaches desperately for his shoulders as he sits up.

“Why?” He chokes out on a sob as he buries his nose into Tenzo’s collar, rubbing the salty stains of sorrow onto the rough fabric beneath him as Tenzo’s hands run along the bottom hem of his shirt. He lets it be pulled off, and then lets himself be pulled into Tenzo’s lap as a hand strokes a gentle pattern between his shoulder blades.

“You know why, ‘kashi,” he hears as Tenzo brushes a kiss to the tip of his ear. Kakashi turns to look at him, eyes red-rimmed and puffy, cheeks tinged pink—embarrassed, no doubt, as he’s larger than Tenzo, older than Tenzo, and yet he’s the one cradled to the other’s chest—and feels his breath catch as Tenzo’s hand switches from idle patterns to writing the word _love_ across his shoulders, over and over.

Another sob catches him by surprises as he lunges for Tenzo, pulling him in for a kiss that’s equal parts sorrow and sappy sentiment. It’s not nearly the playfully heated and lazy kisses they shared earlier, but rather, a hurried, fierce, passionate one (and then two, and three, and too many more until they lose count) tinged with salt and copper that is born from the trembling epicenter of Kakashi’s need to _be okay for you, Tenzo_ , and the sturdy, unwavering foundation of Tenzo’s need for _you to know it’s okay to be loved, Kakashi_.

They move together, as they’ve done many times before in battle and in bed. It’s almost a routine, the way Kakashi divest Tenzo of his jacket and shirt, always following with a kiss placed delicately over Tenzo’s heart before tracing his own name with a languid finger. It’s the most he can offer, since words fail him on a good day, and Tenzo always answers with a grin that Kakashi swears makes the room a bit brighter and his soul a little lighter.

Naked now, they push into each other’s space, their hands linking above Kakashi’s head as they lie down, and their hips move on their own accord, picking up a staccato rhythm that matches the uneasy breathing between them. Need courses through them—Kakashi’s lightning striking wildfires in Tenzo—as kisses turn more demanding, and love bites are exchanged along the subtle line of Kakashi’s neck and the broad expanse of Tenzo’s shoulders, and strong, guttural sounds punctuate the stagnant air around them.

They’re hurried now, Kakashi fumbling as he reaches for the necessary materials under his bed, breathless laughs exchanged as he falls gently to the wood floor before clambering back up alongside Tenzo. He’s pressed back into the mattress as Tenzo settles on his knees beside him, tracing that word, his _love_ , into Kakashi’s side as he takes his time to open Kakashi up, as he revels in the hesitant noises and shy pleas Kakashi makes as his body writhes and his eyes fall shut.

Then Tenzo is on him, is in him, and Kakashi can’t focus because this is all he ever wants, this exquisite pulling of the heartstrings when Tenzo, Gods bless him, murmurs his adoration into his skin like it’ll eventually embed itself there; this movement of them together, the stop and start of them exploring every inch of one another, even though they both mapped the other out a long, long time ago; this absolute and endless agony of being loved, and being in love, and being _here, right here, with you_.

Hands grasp at the other, leaving crescent moon indentations on shoulders and hips, as Kakashi smothers his sadness, his longing, his regret in the warm and overpowering embrace that is Tenzo’s. His thoughts are scattered, chaotic, and can only seem to construct the same sentences, one after another.

_You’re everything._ Tenzo’s biting sharply at the juncture of his neck and collarbone, laving over it with his tongue after to ensure a wide, dark mark is left, and Kakashi answers with a drawn out moan, head tilting back to expose his throat.

_I need you._ Kakashi’s shouting as Tenzo brushes against that spot inside him, that only he’s ever reached.

_I love you._ They’re moving frantically now, until they can’t anymore, until their bodies are brought to their peak, until their hands slide from skin slick with fresh sweat, and their eyes are heavy from the exertion, and their words have quieted to whispers.

_I’m sorry._ Tenzo’s slipping quietly from his grasp, returning with a washcloth before Kakashi can even collect himself enough to protest and cleaning Kakashi—and himself—as thoroughly as he can without moving them to the shower.

_Don’t leave me_. They’re twined together now, reluctant to move away from one another despite the tacky remnants of travel, and battle, and sex covering them, and despite the room being slightly too cold for them to rest comfortably. The threadbare bedspread provides at least a little protection against the chill.

Their legs are linked, with Kakashi’s injured knee on top, and Tenzo lays beneath him, head settled on Kakashi’s sparse pillows as he looks down at the man with his cheek on his chest. The usually voluptuous silver hair is splayed in different directions—damp tendrils sticking straight up in some places and unknowingly reminding Tenzo of the distant mountains, fierce and unyielding—though some strands have rebelled and matted to his forehead. Kakashi’s dark grey eyes are hardly open—he’s trying to stay awake as long as he can—but his embrace is tight as he snuggles further into Tenzo and hears the strong beat of his heart beneath his head.

Kakashi hums, voice filled with gravel, as Tenzo’s hand cards through his hair, eyes eventually drifting shut as his body releases the tension that’s decided to take up residence in his bones over the years. He hears Tenzo’s heart skip a few beats (he makes note to ask about it later), feels him press a kiss to the crease between Kakashi’s brow, feels his hand slip back to its familiar place between his shoulders. And as Kakashi drifts to sleep—finally—he hears Tenzo pick up the lulling melody again, the one that dispels nightmares, that quiets worries and anxieties, and feels him begin to trace the word _love_ over and over into the spaces near Kakashi’s spine,

Then, right before they both fall into the first restful sleep in weeks, Kakashi feels Tenzo, languidly, carefully—as if he’s already fallen asleep and every last inch of his remaining willpower is thrust into completing this task—trace a different word across his back, one not written before:

_home_.


End file.
